


this is where the whole world keeps on turning (this is where we come undone)

by smol_lesbean



Category: Once Upon a Time RPF
Genre: jen was robbed of the dark swan arc tbh, my sweet angsty babies, remember when that cute bb was doing so much research at libraries?, season 5A filming, the trash is me i am the trash, when the doghouse was a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smol_lesbean/pseuds/smol_lesbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which jen is in the doghouse, and doesn't know quite why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is where the whole world keeps on turning (this is where we come undone)

**Author's Note:**

> this is fiction, for fun, and because let's face it, we're all morrilla trash at the end of the day. it should go without saying that this should NEVER EVER be shared with cast/etc. thank you!

If someone asked her, point blank, Jen would have to say that filming season five hasn't been at all what she expected. Her arc -- the one thing she'd pushed so hard for, the one thing she'd embraced as her chance to finally, _finally_ shine -- has, to the best of her knowledge, been reduced to yet another superficial romance thing with Hook and it _sucks_. It's nothing personal against Colin, he's a sweet guy and a friend of hers. But after four years of watching Lana spectacularly smirk and sneer her way through Enchanted Forest flashbacks, CGI flames in hand, she'd been more than a little excited to embrace villainy herself.  
  
Instead, though, she's sitting in her trailer at almost one a.m., still in her skintight leather pants, traces of white powder lingering on the edges of her hairline. She's got a book in her hand (tonight it's _The Girl in the Spider's Web_ , and while she's been eager to find out more about Lisbeth Salander, it's just not the same since the majority of it wasn't written by Stieg Larsson, but instead by another writer continuing his draft posthumously), but it's more out of habit than any real interest; she's read the same paragraph about six times. She's about to skim it for time number seven when she hears the tentative knock on her door.  
  
At this hour, it can only be one person, but it's been, what, a few weeks since said person has knocked on her trailer door? (It's been five weeks, two days, and twenty-three hours, to be exact. Not that she's counting or anything).  
  
She still isn't quite sure exactly what it is she's done to deserve this freeze out (and _oh_ , she knows the fans have noticed. She wishes she didn't, to be honest. She has no idea how they've noticed because she is a firm believer in keeping her personal life far away from social media, but still somehow, they've noticed. She's seen their not as vague as they think they're being Tumblr posts). It's unlike any other argument they've had in the past.

Jen's not even sure it can really be considered an argument when she is just. Just doing her job? What's so wrong with that? With saying what her people want her to say in interviews. Giving shout-outs to the right people. Doing #101smiles again even though she rarely feels like smiling lately.  
  
She sighs, perhaps a bit self-pityingly (she's only human), slips her bookmark back in at that over-read paragraph, holding the book to her chest like a shield (against what, she couldn't say), and unlatches the door.  
  
"Hi, Jennifer."  
  
Jen just gapes. it's embarrassing and she feels like a child caught somewhere she shouldn't be, even though this is _her_ trailer, goddamnit.  
  
It's her trailer, and it's.  
  
"It's one a.m.," she says. And really, she should have expected the eye roll she gets in return for stating the obvious.  
  
"I'm aware."  
  
Jen fidgets (Jen hates when she fidgets), toeing her left foot with her right, wishing she was wearing socks because the polish from her last pedicure is chipping, making her feel like a mess (Lana's sudden presence isn't exactly helping either).  
  
"Do you wa-"  
  
"Can I co-"  
  
They spit out their sentences simultaneously, spurring a bout of nervous laughter from both of them.  
  
Jen gives in first, even though every part of her is screaming, because Lana is here, Lana is here, Lana is _here_. After weeks of nothing.  
  
She is here, right? Jen has fallen asleep so many times over the last month and a half, has dreamt this scenario too often to count.  
  
Jen waits until Lana has stepped inside, facing away towards the couch, and pinches herself on the inside of her left wrist. When she's locked the trailer door, she turns, and yes. yes yes _yes_ , Lana is still here. Is truly here.  
  
"So..." she starts.  
  
"So," Lana replies with a nod.  
  
"Do you want a drink or something?" Jen asks, even though five weeks ago, Lana would have just gone over to the liquor cabinet and taken out a tumbler and poured herself a drink from the bottle of Widow Jane 8 Year Jen buys -- yes, especially for her, because five years in Vancouver and she knows Lana's heart is still always in Brooklyn -- whenever she's in New York.  
  
It's weird, waiting for a response from Lana, but Jen has that eggshell feeling, and everything else is so _much_ right now that she's worried she'll say the wrong thing and this apparition will be gone. And it'll just be her and her book and that damned page she's read too many times.  
  
"I have an unopened malbec, some beer ... uhhh," Jen pauses, searching in the fridge. "Lime seltzer?" She knows Lana knows her bourbon is there, too.  
  
("Got anything stronger?" Jen's own voice taunts her in her head, remembering the first time they had drinks in her trailer, playing it off like they were actually committed to rehearsing lines.  
  
Remembering the first time Lana touched her wrist lightly, whispered "Jenni" in her ear before tracing the shell oh-so-lightly with her tongue.  
  
Remembering the first time she made Lana shudder, and how it made her want to do nothing else but that basically forever).  
  
Jen also knows she's stalling. So when Lana answers, telling her she'll just have whatever Jen has open already, Jen realizes it probably means she's not going to like whatever it is Lana has to say. That Lana's trying to be nice by playing the polite guest instead of the something-more-than-friend who demands things in that affectionate "We've known each other for forever, gimme _my_ drink, dipshit" way of hers.  
  
When both glasses of wine are poured and Jen has perched herself on the arm of the couch, spine straight even then, Lana shifts to face her.  
  
"I know what you're trying to do, Jennifer," she says, her voice hard and serious. "And it's not working. It's not going to work."  
  
Lana pauses, downing half of her wine in one sip. Her voice drops, then, barely above a whisper. "It's not enough. Not this time."  
  
Jen feels the words like a slap, sharp and cold.  
  
"I. What?" she blurts before she can stop herself to respond intelligently. "Lana, I don't know what you--"  
  
"Yes, Jennifer," Lana sighs. "You do know."  
  
Jen tries, she tries so hard to think where she went wrong. How and when. "You saw I added you back, right? On Instagram?"  
  
Lana doesn't respond to that.  
  
"I've been liking your posts!" Jen adds, because for her, that means something.  
  
"But have you actually been _reading_ them, Jennifer?"  
  
And she has. She absolutely has. She's seen the posts about the flowers and the cards and the warming bears (and hey, she even posted about that one herself!). It hasn't escaped her notice that Lana's mostly been thanking her Swan Queens.  
  
It hasn't escaped Jen's notice that the Swan Queens have been reaching out to her, too. But she's waited so long, been so worried that if she acknowledges them, they'll notice. Notice that she smiles the most when Lana's smiling at her. That she blushes so hard when Lana struts out of wardrobe in her Evil Queen garb (and blushes even harder when Lana's in jeans and a vintage tee, handing Jen a Starbucks cup at her trailer door). That they'll _know_ how her whole body feels on fire when Lana touches her arm. That they'll see phantom traces of Lana's kisses all over her arms and shoulders. She can't let them see that. That's _hers_.  
  
That _was_ hers.

**Author's Note:**

> i realize this ends in such a way as to call for more. i will work on that!


End file.
